"Have I ever made love to you?"
She did not reply. Her eyes were fixed on her glass.
"Have I, Athalie?" he repeated.
"No, Clive," she said gently.
"Well then; is there not on my part a very deep, solidly founded, and vital friendship for you? Is there not a—"
"Don't let's talk about it," she interrupted in a low voice. "You always make me very happy; you say I please you—interest and amuse you. That is enough—more than enough—more than I ever hoped or asked—"
"I said you make me happy;—happier than I have ever been," he explained with emphasis. "Do you suppose for a moment that your regard for me is warmer, deeper, more enduring, than is mine for you? Do you, Athalie?"
She lifted her eyes to his. But she had nothing more to say on the subject.
However, he began to insist,—a little impatiently,—on a direct answer. And finally she said: